


Beast Within

by CauseImAshamed (Klebkatt)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, John Watson is Sebastian Moran, Kidnapping, M/M, Original Character(s), dark!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klebkatt/pseuds/CauseImAshamed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John begins a webcomic, adopting the moniker "Sebastian Moran" to cope with his PTSD. James Moriarty finds the comic and becomes a fan who isn't happy when his "Sebastian" can't make updates due to Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> For my own kink meme prompt here: sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=118890783#t118890783.
> 
> I am an American, so I'm not even going to try and pretend that I know how to throw British words and phrases around.
> 
> Feel free to fill the request on the kink meme. Also, if anyone want's to beta, feel free to volunteer.

"How are things going with your blog?"

She asks him this every time he sees his therapist when they run out of things to say, which is always right after introductions.

"Fine. It's good," he replies. The same song and dance over and over.

It's not fine, they both know it. John spends all his blog time writing about his roommate, Sherlock Holmes, rather than his day to day thoughts in regards to casual civilian life.

"I’ve read it, but nothing much about you."

"Not much happens to me outside of Sherlock," he easily admits.

"But it is you blog, John. I would like to see you write about yourself, your life and not only the life you share with Sherlock."

John would protest, but he knew that she'd only rebuff him. He was stubborn, however, and wouldn't concede what these sessions were really about: John Watson, having tasted fear and lived solely on adrenaline, didn't want to fall back into a life he wasn't happy in. A life that had always been a lie to him.

She has stared knowingly at him and he, in turn, looked at everything else with occasional glances at her face. With the conversation at a standstill (all their meetings turned out like this), it would be only a few minutes more of this unbearable silence till she gave in with a sigh and let him gratefully leave this hell hole.

John was already making plans on what to eat for dinner after a decidedly thorough and slow walk through the park on the way home when his therapist spoke. "How do you feel about art?"

John's head whipped forward to her from where he'd been idly staring at the wall paper across the room. "Pardon?"

"Do you like to art? Any of it, drawing painting..." She trailed off and John chimed it. "We went to the gallery a few days before the pool. It was nice, well, the little I was able to see."

"And before?"

"Indifferent, I suppose. I took the mandatory art classes in grade school like everyone else. Took one last generic art class as a senior in High school. Needed one more elective."

"Anything you really liked from those art lessons?"

John thought for a moment. "Calligraphy. I liked drawing old English script and drawing my own codes with Harry." John was surprised with himself. He hadn't been so forward and honest in years with anyone other than Sherlock, and even then, Sherlock wouldn't have cared to know something unnecessary from his--well, John wasn't sure what Sherlock thought of him as. He'd like to say friend, and Sherlock clearly gave a damn as to what happened to his sidekick. The pool incident proved that to him, but did Sherlock value him more than someone who it was nice to have adventures with?

"Any other aspect of art?"

This one took him a bit longer to admit. "Comics."

"Like newspaper cartoons?"

"No, like comic books you see in stores. Superman, Batman, like that."

"What got you into that?"

"A joint project the creative writing students had with the art students. Everyone was paired off; except for me."

"Why"

John smiled happily. "Creative writing was my other elective that year. I asked if I could work on my own. Since I technically didn't need the art class to graduate and there was only a month left before summer, both teachers consented."

"How did that turn out?"

"The story was better than the art, I assure you." His lips parted in an honest and genuine smile. "Fifteen drawn story pages, three full page ads of whatever we wanted, and a full drawn cover and backing with logos and all in color with light, shadows, the works."

"Containing everything you'd learned in both classes applied."

"Yeah."

"What was your comic about?"

"A personified dog. Not sure where the character came from, but I'd had him for a while. He and two friends had an adventure about a large dinosaur bone."

John actually chuckled at himself, reliving the memory of his fingers killing him when he pressed down too hard on the colored pencils or smeared graphite everywhere with the fat of his hand and pinky finger. He joyfully recalled hands black with sharpie stains and his utter horror at find that the pen lines bleed purple when he swept over them with markers. It was a lot of hard work and his neck killed him afterward, but, god, was he proud of his comic and the B+ it earned him.

"The teachers collected it into a small school anthology. Harry still might have it. She was my proof reader."

His therapist was writing in her notes for John's file when he came back from nostalgic memories and spoke to him. "How would you like to do that again?"

"A comic book?"

"Yes, this one strictly focusing on your past in the army, perhaps your childhood, as well as thoughts outside of Sherlock."

John's mood was tanked by the suggestion. She spoke up before he could say anything. "I still want you to write your blog, John, but I'd like you to start exploring yourself mentally and emotionally. You're very animated in your creative works and I believe it would do you good to find a way to express yourself.

"Like your blog, I want to see this online. However, unlike with your blog, you can be completely anonymous."

John was glad she didn't say what he was a thousand times more honest to himself and others with something between them.

He stared at her quizzically, "I don't see why I--"

"The point of having this and your blog online is to encourage you to open up and meet others opinion and critique online. You had trouble writing your blog because it was so personal and you worried what people who knew you, or at least of you, would think if you were completely yourself.

"With the art blog, I'd like you to do the opposite. Be everything you want to be behind an assumed identity. You can be as anonymous as you choose online. No one will know who it is unless you want them to."

John slumped further into his chair and breathed out heavily through his nose. 'Unless they're Sherlock,' he thought wearily.

"Please try, John. That’s all I’m asking."  
\--

Four days later, John Watson found himself in the office supply aisle while grocery shopping. Sherlock had requested (demanded) a pack of pens and two notebooks for one reason or another that escaped John’s reasoning since Sherlock never wrote anything down before. That’s what he had his (John’s) mobile and laptop (John’s too) for, wasn’t it?

Shaking his head at his roommate, who was currently sulking on the sofa back home due to a lull in cases, John deposited the wanted items into the hand basket at his side. He proceeded down the aisle, looking around casually at various items on sell. Post-it’s, envelopes, small picture frames, and then he reached the kid’s drawing supplies at the end of the row.

John thought back to what his therapist suggested last session. It was true that he had enjoyed making a comic as a teenager, but as part of therapy? He hadn’t been thrilled at all about a personal blog, considering technology hated him, but he had made it as a half-hearted attempt to make his therapist happy.

A voice in his mind asked, ‘Why not start an art blog?’ It’d be a much more involved distraction from Sherlock’s bad moods and an easier hobby to maintain since John wouldn’t have to worry about his roommate snatching his things away. Well, Sherlock might steal some pencils and paper, but there was no reason Sherlock would invade his privacy (often) if he used more traditional mediums for his creative therapy.

It wouldn’t hurt him or his wallet if he picked up a pack of fifty colored pencils or step back up the aisle to grab a pack of copy paper…


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who left feed back.
> 
> I do check and recheck the chapter before I post it, but I'm still going to miss a few things, so feel free to point something out. Do look out for random tense shift in the middle of this chapter though. Sorry.
> 
> Keep in mind that I am American, and as such I don't know anything about England other than cool things come from it.
> 
> Edit: DI's name fixed. Thanks, Teapot.

Arriving back at Baker Street, John ascended the seventeen steps and walked in through the door of 221B to find Sherlock upside down on the couch, his feet flushed against the wall, John’s laptop on the floor in front of him.

“Sherlock," he said, annoyed. "Rather than use my computer without asking, _again_ , why don’t you clean? Or go out for a few hours? Surely there is something you can do to entertain yourself.”

The detective ran his fingers through his hair, grabbing at it like he would pull it out. "I don't need to entertain myself. Cases! I need a case, John!"

With a frustrated sigh, John moved to the kitchen, sitting the shopping bags down on the counter since whatever Sherlock had been working on covered the entirety of the kitchen table. “Then text Lestrade; or, better yet, get dressed and go visit the Yard.”

John opened the fridge (thank god the hand wasn't in there any more) and began to put away the milk and eggs when Sherlock’s agitated voice picked up again. “He’s on vacation for the next two weeks.”

John felt his eyes roll up, his jaw fell slack in a voiceless groan, and his shoulders sagged. Two weeks. How was he going to survive two weeks of pissy, annoying Sherlock till Lestrade came back?

“Dimmock ?” he asked, hopeful.

“Doing nothing of interest,” Sherlock pouted while crossed his arms childishly around his chest and rolled himself to lie on the sofa with his back to John. He finished is pout by curling up on himself.

Moving back to the counter, John riffled through the bags. “I got the notebooks and pens you asked for,” he offered.

Sherlock continued to stare at the back of the couch. “Don’t want them.”

Oh god. It was one of _those_ moods. John would need to take his revolver out of the house before Sherlock added another smiley face to the poor wall. “I’ll take them then. It’ll be nice to write traditionally for a while,” he said while putting cans up in the cabinet.

“You’re stopping your blog.”

It was such a simple deduction, even John could have guessed this, but if it got Sherlock out of this terrible mood, may as well lead him on. He turned sideways to look at Sherlock. “What makes you say that?”

Sherlock turned onto his back to look at John, stretching out to a more relaxed position. “Actually, I should say you intend to change up your blogging style. You bought a pack of printer paper and colored pencils, various sizes of black sharpies and other childhood art supplies. Naturally, an art journal.”

John turned back to his task and piled the empty plastic bags into another before he placed it into recycling. “My therapist suggested it. To accompany my blog, that is.”

A corner of Sherlock’s lips curled up. “So now I’ll see your fantastical retellings of my scientific findings and logical conclusions as stick figures?”

John smiled instantly at the jab. “Hey, I was alright at drawing back in high school. I’m sure I’ll just need a warm up.” He heard Sherlock laugh. John was thankful that his roommate was in a better mood now, but John had to break it to him. “No.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he stiffened, “No?”

“She wants this to be solely about me, a comic book that I do on my own.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, his conclusion reshaped by this new information. “Your therapist is worried you’re avoiding your problems by focusing your blog on me.”

Finished with the groceries, John tucked his art supplies into a leftover plastic bag. “There are no problems."

John realized he muttered the words out too fast when he leaves the kitchen and sees that Sherlock has quirked up an eyebrow.

“Really, all I needed was something to do. You know?” John ends it as a question rather than saying _‘--needed to feel useful. Capable.’_

“Well, anyway,” he dismisses the conversation by turning his head away from Sherlock before moving towards the stairs to his bedroom. “I’ll be upstairs till five. What do you want to eat when I come down?”

Sherlock groans as he stretches out his legs before he flips back over to face the sofa’s back.

“Chicken, rice, and green beans then.” and John was up the stairs.  
\--

John's room was not terribly big, but it was enough for a bed, dresser, and a small desk with a cheap chair he bought at a re-use shop. He arranged the desk to sit in a corner underneath the single window to make the most of daylight when he would sit in his room writing on his laptop.

Now he sat at his desk with the shade up, glancing at the first blank page of his newly procured notebook, cheap pen in hand from the pack on his desk. It was difficult to think of what he should be writing about. Where to even begin? When it came to his first comic, he'd found some of his and Harry's old story books. One of these stories had been about a Boston Terrier, a dog that John had fallen in love with since he had first seen it on the page as a boy.

John had gone through a dinosaur phase when he was eight and Harry was three. They would pretend they were hunting raptors in the back yard and finding small dinosaur bones buried in the dirt. It'd been fun digging up the old chicken bones he'd hidden with his sister and his construction toys and quite inspiring for a small comic later in life. It was all nice and good, but what more did he have to base an interesting comic on?

Nothing happened to John. He was simply an older man who could not keep a date (Sherlock or no), had fights with self checkout machines, and watched crappy TV. He was in shape, but civilian life had settled in on him even if he had not settled into it, and he had gained a few pounds. John would never again have the tight stomach he was proud of in his twenties no matter how much he crunched or ran after Sherlock.

Amazing things happened to Sherlock, and he had the brain to realize it. He solved difficult cases and figured out impossible crimes. Madmen played life or death games with him and it never fazed Sherlock, only excited him. He was several years younger than John and handsome to boot with his curly hair and high cheek bones, long flowing coat trailing behind with flair. Sherlock knew he looked gorgeous and flaunted it without care for what his attentions meant to other people.

Suave, dashing, and mysterious were all incredible words that described Sherlock Holmes to the uninitiated; and they were words that would never reflect John Watson. Average, world wary, looked his age, ol’ reliable John Watson.

John rested his chin in his hand and watched as his pen danced over his fingers. It was so easy to write about Sherlock. Even John was entranced by what his friend could do. With the exception of the sociopathy, Sherlock was everything John wished he was.

A _hero_ , that was how Sherlock had phrased his idolization. John wanted Sherlock to be a hero. Heroes and villains didn't exist to Sherlock; the idea was only an exaggerated concept of extremes. People wanted a hero as much as they wanted a villain. One was to save people from their problems and the other existed for people to blame all their problems on. It was a type of escapism to throw off guilt, blame, and shame.

John had to agree as much as he did not want to. Sherlock was a detective for game only. If some good came out of his pursuit of the puzzle, then good came out of it. He knew Sherlock was not evil at heart, but he was emotionally stunted and he did not care to act out niceties unless he was molding someone like putty for information. He was rude and arrogant, which came with knowing you are more intelligent than the rest. Why act like the annoying ants when you could clearly step on them if you wanted to?

John, however, had always cared. It bothered him to think that people thought negatively of him. If he had wronged someone, he wanted to fix it. He had the morals Sherlock lacked after all.

He paused mid twirl of his pen. What _would_ he be like if he had no morals at all? What would John Watson be like if he was more than willing to hurt others for selfish gains?

It was an interesting idea at least, so he scribbled it down. He has written stories about heroes and as an observer, but never the villain. How many stories took place through the villain’s point of view? John could only think of two; an American TV show and something Japanese online.

Still, it really said something if he wanted to start this semi-autobiographical comic by stating he, John Watson, was a villain at heart. The description didn’t sit well with him, but John decided to look over it and move on. If he scrapped his only functioning train of thought, he would never get this comic started.

A name then, something John would like and could build off of. Someone else John could be, a mask, as it were.

There were not very many names that John liked. His middle name was an obvious choice and not very common, but he wanted very little of himself and this character to be similar. He could name her Joan, but that was simply being lazy. He knew nothing about women other than he wanted to date them and he didn’t identify with or want to be one, so that at most helped John finalize the gender of his main character.

He thought back to his first comic and began to pick it apart with the various character creation strategies he had learned in class. The first failed attempt had been substitution, now John was trying opposites.

The first comic was about a dog, the opposite of a dog was a cat. What came to his mind with cats? John scribbled it all down as fast as he could: _graceful, sleek, independent, sniper like gaze, fear, sleepy, lazy, a tiger stripped cat named_ Sebastian.

 _Sebastian_? He remembered Sebastian; a lovely senior cat of his sister’s when they were younger. He was big and fat and loved to sleep in the window when the warm sun poured in.

He was also an excellent hunter and had brought in all manner of prey, birds, lizards, and mice to name a few. John remembered one night he sat next to Sebastian after the cat had caught and killed a mouse. He had watched without looking away or flinching as the cat had crunched the small morsel in three segments, head, half the body, and then the rest of the body.

The memory brought another to his mind, one where a little John, having been inspired by his cat, found a mouse and fallowed it to its hole in the wall. John had a cup in his hand and was very patient for a, what, five or six year old? He was very quiet and very still, and waited for the moment the mouse stuck its head out to gauge its safety.

In retrospect, John was not proud of the memory or what it said about him even at a young age. He had slammed the cup over the mouse’s head and pressed down as hard as his little hands could. The mouse struggled until it did not anymore, and even then, little John held down to make sure.

His parents never knew what John had done; only that, somehow, a mouse had found its way into the freezer and died. Most likely it froze or suffocated.

If Sherlock was described as a hero, perhaps a villain suited John best after all.


End file.
